


Wild Creatures

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Banshee Lydia Martin, Blow Jobs, Corsetry, Fae & Fairies, Fae Peter Hale, Gender Non-Conforming stiles, Generic Historical Period, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Child Abuse, Steter Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: The treaty is signed while Stiles is being laced into his wedding corset. Ink splatters parchment as a maid pulls the ribbons, tighter and tighter. Stiles’ breath and future are taken away, all to save a village. He is a sacrifice more than a bride. The maid assists in fixing a choker around Stiles throat. Her hands are cold despite the roaring fire in the grate. The choker is a string of blood red rubies, they reflect the firelight with a wet shine like an open wound.





	Wild Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> I only managed to write one fic for Steter Week and so this is my offering - Day 3 Arranged Marriage
> 
> Honestly thought I wouldn't post in time, so much has happened recently. Submitted a dissertation, graduated, got a job, moving out this Saturday. Life really just explodes all at once. 
> 
> I hope you like this.
> 
> I, neglectedtuesday, have not given my permission for my work to be posted on any third-party website or app such as Fanfic Pocket Archive Library or any of the Woodsign Fanfic Apps.

The treaty is signed while Stiles is being laced into his wedding corset. Ink splatters parchment as a maid pulls the ribbons, tighter and tighter. Stiles’ breath and future are taken away, all to save a village. He is a sacrifice more than a bride. The maid assists in fixing a choker around Stiles throat. Her hands are cold despite the roaring fire in the grate. The choker is a string of blood red rubies, they reflect the firelight with a wet shine like an open wound. 

Both sides shake hands as a show of good faith, while in another room the maid places the elaborate veil upon Stiles head. It is a deer skull with white lace draped over the antlers. It is a reminder that Stiles is the weaker of the species here, the delicate prey at the mercy of his new predator family. Stiles isn’t fooled. 

Stags gore their attackers.

Stiles is led to the chapel, gliding through the halls with only the rustle of taffeta and silk to announce his presence. He has not met his husband-to-be. He doubts that his betrothed will be kind. Since before Stiles was born, his village have been at war with the beasts who come from the forest. Now a compromise has been reached, an orphan with no prospects in exchange for peace. 

The chapel is full of monsters, human and forest beast alike. All those involved in making this peace treaty a reality. The organ begins to play, heavy notes to match Stiles heavy heart. His betrothed stands before the altar, dressed in fine scarlet robes hemmed with gold. Elegant twisted horns protrude from brown hair, and as Stiles is led closer, he notices how the monsters’ hands are pitch black and tipped with claws. Ice blue eyes regard Stiles with the same appreciation wolves give lambs who have wandered away from the safety of the flock. 

Stiles is no lamb. He bares his teeth at his betrothed, but only gets an indulgent smile in response. The ceremony is quick, each party cutting their thumbs to press a bloody thumbprint beside their scrawled signatures. A priest murmurs ancient rites while waving his hands over them and then its over. Stiles’ new husband, Peter the creature had scrawled on the dotted line, takes Stiles by the elbow in order to lead him from the chapel. The grip is firm but does not hurt. 

A carriage the colour of soot, drawn by skeletal horse awaits them. The driver has a battered top hat pulled low to obscure their face. They open the carriage door before scrambling up the side to the driver’s seat with jerky movements like a spider. Peter helps Stiles up the carriage steps, making sure Stiles’ veil doesn’t get caught on anything. The elders of Stiles village, the ones that signed Stiles future away watch from the chapel entrance, lips pursed and expressions grim. They clearly do not expect this treaty to last long, nor do they trust that Stiles will uphold his end of the bargain.  _ Perhaps  _ Stiles thinks,  _ you should have sacrificed your own children if you wanted someone more compliant _ . 

The door shuts behind Peter with a soft click. Stiles presses himself into the corner furthest away from Peter, who seemingly sensing Stiles discomfort, elects to sit in the opposite corner. Outside, a whip cracks. The wheels of the carriage begin to turn and the vehicle shoots forward. Stiles grabs hold of armrest, trying to wedge himself in as the carriage whips around a corner. Peter is unaffected. He folds his hands across his stomach, looking out the window with mild disinterest. 

“Whilst I imagine neither of us are particularly excited about this prospect,” Peter says, still looking out of the window, “I hope we can come to some kind of arrangement and perhaps even learn to tolerate one another.” 

This is the first time Stiles has heard Peter speak. His voice is rich and sonorous, it reminds Stiles of stepping inside a well-heated house after trekking through the snow to get there. Stiles says nothing in return, concentrating on not throwing up as the carriage plunges into the woods.

\---

The war began when the humans cut down the first trees to construct their village. They ignored the subsequent warnings, they scoffed at the offers of diplomacy and conversation. 

And so, that’s when bloodshed became the only method of communication either side cared to engage in. 

\---

The monsters throw a huge celebration, though Stiles presumes it is because the war has come to an end rather than their King getting married. Stiles slumps in his chair, idly poking his food with his fork. He’s still in his wedding clothes, hyper aware of the confines of his corset and the stag teeth digging into his scalp. He’s elected to keep the veil in front of his face to at least shield him from the eyes of those surrounding. Peter leans over form his seat to whisper in Stiles’ ear.

“You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t think you’ll get very far by starving yourself…”

“This isn’t a protest,” Stiles hisses, pushing his plate away, “I’m not trying to make a point, I’m anxious, it affects my stomach.” 

Peter leans back, surveying those making merry beyond their table. The music has a heavy beat, the air is perfumed in such a way that Stiles feels heavy and sluggish. A maid appears at Peter’s side, he murmurs something to her before she scurries away. Peter gets up from his chair, waving away queries from those nearby. 

“Come along,” Peter says, offering his arm for Stiles to take. Stiles ignores him, getting to his feet and gesturing that Peter lead the way. They walk down a stone corridor lit by flickering torches, before ascending a spiral staircase. When Peter turns to make sure Stiles is keeping up, the fire light reflects off of his eyes, revealing flecks of gold within the endless blue. 

When they reach the top of the stairs Peter opens a carved wooden door, revealing a large bedroom. There’s a messy desk in front of a large window; it’s littered with bits of parchment, assorted quills and half empty bottles of ink. The bed has an intricate carved headboard, some kind of flowering tree. There are small side tables either side of the bed, the one on the right is piled high with leather bound books. At the opposite side of the room is a vast fireplace, in front of which are two plush red armchairs. To the left of the fireplace, hanging against the wall is a copper bathtub. 

“This is our room,” Peter states, moving aside so that Stiles can enter the room properly. Stiles kicks his shoes off, not caring where they land. He heads over to the bed, running his fingers over the sheets. The fabric is sleep soft. He hears Peter come up behind him, so he turns around. Peter is close, close enough that Stiles realises they are a similar height. For some reason, Peter’s general aura makes him seem like he was towering over Stiles. 

“May I?” Peter asks, voice impossibly soft. Peter reaches for Stiles veil, removing the skull with a carefulness Stiles didn’t think those hands were capable of. Stiles head feels so much lighter. He rolls his head, aiming to stretch the pain out of his neck. Peter turns back after placing the veil on the bed. “There you are.” 

“Here I am,” Stiles replies, wanting Peter to stop looking at him so he can get out of the corset. “Now, I’m sure you want to get back to the revelry, so if you could send a maid to help me get out of this damned corset.”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“I’ll help you.” 

Stiles raises a skeptical eyebrow but he’s tired, he wants this corset off. He turns around, nerves fluttering in his stomach. Peter’s hands are warm. They undo the clasp of choker first, fingertips brushing against the nape of Stiles neck. Stiles bites down on his lip to prevent himself from gasping. Peter is efficient in undoing the corset, almost as if he’s had practise. Stiles lets out a relieved breath. Luckily the rest of the wedding attire, a white silk shirt and trousers, are easy to remove, no assistance required. Stiles can feel Peter’s eyes on him, knows he’s being assessed and judged. 

“Beautiful,” Peter murmurs. He says it so quietly that Stiles thinks that he wasn’t meant to hear it. 

Peter steps away, heading towards a wardrobe Stiles initially missed. He retrieves a pair of pale yellow pajamas, placing them on the bed before removing the veil, which he then hangs on a nail above the right bedside table. 

“I will aim not to disturb you when I return,” Peter says, “Good night Stiles.” 

Peter takes his leave, the door clunking shut behind him. Stiles changes into the pajamas before climbing into the bed. He pulls the covers over his head and lets himself cry.

\---

Stiles is closing down the bar at the end of his shift when the elders approach him with the proposition. They think they’re being persuasive, by outlining how heroic it will make Stiles, how it will honour his dead parents, how it’s Stiles opportunity to give back to the village that raised and took care of him. It’s like they don’t know Stiles at all. 

“These creatures want to end the bloodshed as much as our side does, this will be a perfect opportunity to get behind their defenses, find out their weaknesses,” Gerard says, his raspy voice grating to Stiles’ ears. Stiles loathes Gerard. Gerard is the kind of man who enjoys punishing those weaker than him, the kind of man who considers orphans to be an under utilised workforce. 

“And if I refuse?”

“We’ll stick Scott on the Nightwatch. He barely made it through this Winter, what with his poor lungs.” Gerard pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “I wonder how long he’ll last. Especially if he’s on the front of the line.” 

Stiles thinks on his childhood, on the cold and the hunger and the pain. He thinks about Scott, the hacking sound of Scott’s cough, the way Scott wheezes and gasps when he can’t breath. Stiles thinks about the time that Scott broke a window and Stiles took the blame because Scott had already taken a beating that week. He thinks of the money he has saved, almost enough for him and Scott to finally get out of here. Almost but not enough. 

“And what guarantee do I have that you won’t do that even if I agree?”

Gerard spreads his arms, a placating and trustworthy gesture. 

“Scott’s always been good with animals, I’m sure we can find a way for him to study under Doctor Deaton.”

Stiles throws the rag he’d been using to clean the counter into a nearby sink. He could run. He could cut his losses, grab the money he has and take his chances with the long road out of town. It’s the beginning of Spring, making travel a lot easier and he’s sure that if he times it right, he can get both him and Scott past the guard without too much hassle. 

“And you know,” Gerard continues, “if you were to agree and stick to your agreement, I would be willing to put a good word in my son, concerning my granddaughter and Scott’s relationship.” 

Stiles knew Allison and Scott weren’t as clandestine as they said they were. Theoretically Stiles could still run, could maybe convince Scott that Allison isn’t worth it, could even maybe convince Allison to join them if the previous line of argument didn’t work. Gerard watches him, eyes glittering with malice. 

Stiles knows he can’t find a way out of this. He has to agree because when it comes to Scott, he’s nothing if not predictable and Gerard knows that, it’s probably why Gerard sought Stiles for this job in the first place. Stiles would do anything to protect Scott and as he hides under the covers of his new bed, he resents the attachment and resents that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot pry Scott’s hands from around his heart, nor pry Gerard’s from around his mind. 

\---

Stiles wakes up to the sound of a door closing. He raises his head, noting that someone has set the table for breakfast between the two armchairs. Stiles can smell toasted bread and honey. Peter is already sat in the armchair, reading through some papers as he pours himself tea. 

“Good morning.” 

“Morning,” Stiles mutters, rubbing sleep grit out of his eyes. 

“Tea?”

“Please.” 

Stiles climbs out of bed, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. He walks over to the armchairs, snagging a slice of toast before sitting down. He tucks his legs under himself, curling up until he’s comfortable. He starts to eat, watching Peter slide a cup of tea and a bowl of berries across the table. 

“So, Stiles, what exactly is your  _ background _ ?”

“I’m an orphan, honestly the most I was expecting to get out of life if I was lucky, was working in the tavern until I was unable to polish a glass and if I wasn’t, becoming part of the Nightwatch and being violently murdered by your people.” 

Stiles pops a berry in his mouth, moaning softly at the sour sweet flavour. He grabs a handful, tossing them in the air to catch them in his mouth. Peter puts his papers to one side. 

“Your people started this war,” Peter comments before taking a long sip of tea. 

Stiles shrugs, catching another berry in his mouth. “Point is, I have no idea how your court works, what you expect from me or in fact what my lot were hoping to achieve by using me as their chess piece in this game.” 

Peter finishes his tea, putting the cup back on the saucer with a soft clink. With the morning light behind him, Peter looks like some kind of fallen angel. The horns appear to have the texture of deer antlers, almost velvety, and Stiles finds himself eager to touch. Instead Stiles picks up his own tea, cupping the delicate porcelain in his hands and holding it close. 

“You’ll need an etiquette tutor,” Peter says, “among other things. How opposed to corsets are you?”

“Very.”

“A shame, I thought your wedding outfit suited you perfectly.” Peter’s eyes lower to Stiles chest as he says this, perhaps remembering the white corset and how Stiles looked when Peter was unlacing it. Stiles feels Peter’s phantom hand at the nape of his neck and represses a shiver. 

“Not. Happening.” 

Peter gives Stiles a look that suggests that they’re tabling this conversation for the time being but it will certainly be revisited at a later date. 

\---

“You have until Scott and Allison’s wedding next spring,” Gerard hisses in Stiles’ ear, his breath hot and rank. “Bring me those abominations weaknesses or Scott might find it difficult to finish his vows.”

Stiles keeps his face neutral, his fists unclenched. A maid appears in the doorway, Stiles’ wedding attire in her hands. Gerard notes the corset, his lip curling. 

“Enjoy your wedding night,” he jeers, striding from the room. 

Stiles looks to the window, the light of the setting sun warming his face. 

\---

Stiles’ etiquette tutor is a banshee. Silver eyed and auburn haired, she glides into the room, only the sound of her forest green skirts making any noise. She regards Stiles with the same interest one might give to a worn writhing in dirt.

“This is your bride,” she says, reaching forward to grip Stiles chin, gold nails digging into his skin. She tilts his head from side to side, looking for something, though Stiles isn’t sure what. He resents being grabbed but doesn’t want to argue with a death omen, especially one with such sharp teeth. “I guess I can work with this.”

“You’ll have to,” Peter replies, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “Stiles, be good for Lydia. Lydia, don’t break him, physically or emotionally.” 

“No promises,” Lydia says, letting go of Stiles chin. He takes a step back, folding his arms over his chest. He feels exposed, like a butterfly, fragile and frantic, caught beneath glass as someone lowers a pin into his thorax. 

Peter collects some papers from his desk, giving Stiles a small and not exactly reassuring smile on his way out. Stiles watches the closing door, wondering if he’s fast enough to slip through but then it shuts completely with a soft click. 

“Well,” Lydia says, bringing her hands together, ‘let’s begin.” 

She moves around him slowly. It’s unnerving, how Stiles can’t hear footsteps, how effortlessly she moves. Stiles doesn’t turn his head, stares straight ahead, counting in his head. Breathe in, one two, breathe out, three four. It’s a trick he’s been doing since infancy. Rage is only useful if it’s controlled, revenge is sweeter when you have all the information and don’t get caught. 

Lydia stops in front of him. She’s at least a foot shorter than him yet makes Stiles feels like he’s cowering beneath her. He might have put it down to a banshee’s reputation, the sickening feeling in the stomach any man would feel when confronted with his own mortality, but Stiles thinks this is all Lydia. She wants him weak at the knees, agreeable to her suggestions. He is mortal; a feeble, breakable thing that she will mold into something worthy of her king, worthy of her kingdom. 

“Your posture is terrible.” 

Stiles laughs, he can’t help himself. Lydia looks taken aback, if only for a moment. Her face smooths itself out into cool disinterest. Stiles straightens his spine, lifting his left arm up and bending it at the elbow. He places his right hand on the top of his elbow, pushing gently and listening for the telltale pop of his shoulder blade. He repeats the gesture with his right arm before letting his arms hang down, rolling his shoulders back. 

“Better?”

“This doesn’t even begin to fix what’s wrong with you,” Lydia says, drifting towards Peter’s desk. She takes a sheet of fresh parchment and quill, scrawling some sort of list, presumably all of Stiles’ faults. Stiles sighs. This is going to be a long day. 

Lydia proves herself a relentless taskmaster. Hardly content with Stiles show of independent spirit, she spends the entire morning and most of the afternoon correcting his posture through a series of walking and sitting exercise, while she rattles off assorted court rules and etiquette. Her tone is precise, sharp in some places but not unkind. It’s evident that she doesn’t expect Stiles to know anything, she explains each social interaction with its relevant context and history. 

“We’re speaking your tongue for your benefit,” Lydia says, handing Stiles several leather bound books, “you will need to learn ours in order to navigate the court.”

“I can barely speak my own language,” Stiles replies, tracing the embossed covers, “I don’t know if I’ll be good at this.” He notes the arch of Lydia’s eyebrow, the downcurl of her lip. “I’m not saying I won’t make an effort, I’m just saying that comprehending languages is not my strong suit. I’m only literate because I stole books and taught myself. I’m good with numbers, good with thinking on my feet and planning ahead but my mouth is not good at wrapping around unfamiliar syllables.” 

Lydia taps her lip with her index finger, before scribbling on her list. 

“Then we will start small and work up.” 

She takes the books back, setting them aside and encouraging Stiles to take a seat. She grabs a few objects from around the room, placing them on the table. She sits opposite, holds up a quill and states its fae name. Stiles repeats it, slowly and clumsily. Lydia offers him an encouraging smile, prompting him to try again. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon this way, Lydia gently coaxing Stiles into this new territory. Stiles didn’t expect this kindness, this involved approach to his learning and though he tries not to show it, he’s grateful that Lydia has chosen to be gentle instead of cruel. 

\---

Stiles is creating his own vocabulary book, his spidery handwriting corrected with Lydia’s looping cursive, when Peter returns. They’re crowded close together, Stiles repeating syllables as he writes them down and he doesn’t notice Peter until he hears Peter’s voice.    
  
“Learning the local language I see.” 

Stiles stills. He pulls his vocabulary book to his chest, hiding it from Peter’s gaze. Lydia gets to her feet, smoothing down the pleats of her skirts. 

“I will see you tomorrow Stiles,” she says, collecting her books and papers. Stiles nods, snapping his vocabulary book closed. Lydia glides towards the door, stopping to murmur something in fae to Peter before disappearing down the corridor. Peter uses his foot to close the door, unbuttoning his shirt as he walks over to the wardrobe. Stiles pointedly looks down at the table, studying the grain of the wood. 

“I assume given that you’re still in one piece that Lydia wasn’t too vicious.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m still not going to wear a corset, no matter how much it may improve my royal posture.”

Peter chuckles. “You’ve foiled my cunning plan, I guess I’ll have to try harder.”

“By all means, continue to try to trick me, I’m sure it will work out fine for you.” 

Peter wanders over, dressed in a more loose fitting shirt. He runs a hand through his hair, making it disheveled in a way that instantly softens him. Stiles leans back in his chair, taking it all in. Peter offers a hand.

“Come take a walk with me before dinner.”

“Where?”

“The garden, it’s beautiful during sunset.” 

Stiles doesn’t take the offered hand but he does get to his feet, motioning to Peter to lead the way. 

The garden is beautiful, but it’s not so much a garden as a huge greenhouse filled to the ceiling with plants of all kinds. Stiles cranes his neck to look up at the ceiling. It’s dusk, the sky fading from cerulean into a soft coral colour, purple blooming at the edges like bruises. Stiles closes his eyes, breathing in the different floral scents, listening to the gentle splash of the waterfall. The outside world cannot reach inside here, the glass an effective barrier from all that weighs on Stiles’ shoulder. 

Stiles opens his eyes as Peter passes him. Peter’s carrying a pair of shears. He stops a few feet in front of Stiles, bending down to clip a few dead leaves from a nearby plant. 

“You’re welcome to visit here whenever you like,” Peter says, searching the underside of the plant for any more shrivelled leaves. 

“I don’t have to like, take care of the plants right?”

Peter laughs, a soft, indulgent chuckle. “No, Stiles, you won’t be expected to do that. You can just sit or meditate.” 

Stiles looks at the plants, at this delicate ecosystem contained within a bubble. 

“This is a lot to trust me with,” Stiles comments, idly reaching out to trace the underside of a fern. The leaves curl in on themselves, away from his touch. “Given that we barely know each other. How do you know I won’t destroy it all? I’m an invader, after all.” 

“Are you going to?”   
  


Stiles shrugs. “Probably not.”

“So that declaration was merely a curiosity as to my motives?” 

“Among other things.”

“Other things?” 

Looking into Peter’s eyes is somewhat similar to staring at the dark water churning beneath the surface of an ice covered lake, so Stiles looks at his own feet instead. The leather shoes he was provided with are soft, much softer than he is used to. 

“I am curious,” Stiles says, “as to why you would agree to marry someone you had not seen. Why you agreed to this  _ treaty _ at all.” 

“Aside from ending the bloodshed you mean?” 

Peter has moved closer to Stiles. The sky has darkened to an inky blue, candles begin to flicker into being all around them. Stiles represses a gasp when Peter uses his claws to tip Stiles’ head up. 

“And what exactly are your motivations Stiles?” Peter murmurs, “your reasons for entering into this bargain?” 

“The societal standing, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Not having to do manual labour ever again is also a plus. Food’s better, living arrangements are definitely better.”

Peter’s lip curls, amused by Stiles’ answers. “So, you’re motivated by materialism.”

“Yes. I’m very materialistic. Emotions are fleeting but things are forever and so forth.” 

“You have the capacity to be a good liar Stiles,” Peter says, dropping his hand from Stiles’ chin. The way he says Stiles name, like it’s something expensive, something caramel sweet and decadent, makes Stiles’ gut clench. “But something tells me you’re not trying.” 

Stiles shrugs, gesturing with his hands as if to say  _ what-can-you-do _ . He holds Peter’s gaze, lets himself fall into the swirling abyss of blue. 

“We’re in this together, even if your people would have you believe otherwise,” Peter says. He reaches up, tucking a small pink flower behind Stiles’ ear. “This can work, if you let it.” 

Stiles takes a step back. The intimacy is overwhelming, like he’s fallen through the ice of Peter’s eyes and is struggling to break the surface. His heart thumps against his rib cage, his breath stumbling against his lips. Peter doesn’t say anything, merely steps backwards to give Stiles some space. Stiles clenches his fists, getting himself under control. Breathe in, one two, breathe out, three four. 

“You can stay here for a while if that would make you feel better,” Peter says, carefully stepping around Stiles, “I’ll have someone bring you some food.”

“No, I’m ok. Lets… let's go eat. Together.” 

Stiles follows Peter out of the greenhouse. He keeps the flower in his hair. 

\---

In the beginning there was the forest. It was vast and endless and home to all manner of creatures. And like all complex things it had rules. Rules about what was edible and what wasn’t. Rules about what trees would protect you and what trees didn’t owe you a thing. Rules about the rivers, and the lakes, and the ponds, and the puddles. Rules about the changing seasons, the best times to plant vegetables and which songbirds were allowed to stay and which had to fly south. Those that called the forest home obeyed these rules, because they understood respect and they understood that nature knows what it’s doing. It has been working in its own way long before they arrived and will work its own way long after they’re gone. 

Then one day, new creatures arrived in the forest. They came from the North, from the sea, seeking a new home and they did not know the rules of the forest. Nor did they care to learn. They did not care about what had existed before them, only that they were now here and this was justification enough for the actions that followed. 

In the beginning there was the forest. In the end there will be the forest. What happens in-between is still yet to unfold. 

\---

Stiles attends his first masquerade ball roughly two months after his arrival. He spends hours in the same position as a owl-eyed tailor constructs his costume. Peter often watches from the doorway, making small comments on the way the fabric falls and which colours he prefers. Stiles remains silent, knowing he has nothing useful to contribute. He does put his foot down when Peter suggests a corset. Peter, perhaps sensing how stubborn Stiles will be about this, wisely takes the suggestion back. 

The costume consists of a floor length sheer coat trimmed with dark russet fur, underneath which Stiles is wearing a white shirt with a waistcoat and trousers the colour of apple cider, along with black leather shoes. The real masterpiece is the mask. It covers all of Stiles’ face except his mouth and reveals what this decadent costume is supposed to be. A fox. 

Peter is a wolf. He’s not wearing a mask, more of a pelt draped over his shoulders and down his back, the head and fangs hanging low over his forehead. Special slits have been made for his horns to poke through. The rest of his costume is similar to Stiles, although in charcoal grey. It fits him perfectly. 

“Nervous?” Peter asks, offering his arm. Stiles takes it, remembering to keep his chin up. 

“I’m dressed in bright orange, notably have two left feet and only a rudimentary grasp of the language, so no, what have I got to be nervous about?” 

“No one would dare think of hurting you.” Peter’s tone is dark; a simmering anger at those who would dare to challenge his choice of bride. It’s comforting, somewhat. 

“More likely I’m going to embarrass you and you’ll have to hide me away forever due to shame.”

“I doubt that.” Peter leans over to press a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek, managing to get around the mask. He’s been doing this more frequently, gentle touches and occasional kisses. Nothing too forward and he never touches Stiles when it’s clear Stiles doesn’t want it. Stiles knows he can say no, knows that Peter will stop if asked but he finds himself indulging in it, even if he isn’t brave enough to initiate. 

“Shall we,” Peter says. Stiles nods. Peter placing his hand on top of Stiles as the doors open and they step over the threshold. 

They’re greeted with soft reverence, a sea of bodies curtsying and bowing at the sound of Stiles and Peter’s titles being spoken. Peter says something long and complicated in fae, Stiles can just about translate it.  _ Let us make merry, good friends, may only the heralding of dawn stop our revelry.  _ Peter raises his hand, gesturing to the band to begin playing once more. 

The music is primal,  [ a deep, ravenous melody ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OY4FD6AJyU) that thrums against Stiles’s skin and into his bones. The musicians are all dressed as insects, their suits and dresses decorated with iridescent beetles that appear to be alive, scuttling around their garments in time with the beat. The singer and the violinist even have real jewelled wings. Stiles catches the eye of the guitarist. His hand is moving so fast it doesn’t even look like it’s touching the strings. He’s grinning like a hunter with a rabbit in his trap, all hunger and glee. 

The ballroom is alive with colour and shimmering bodies. There are all number of masks and elaborate outfits; the sound of swishing fabric background noise under the lively music. One woman is dressed in a mass of silver tentacles that glimmer and writhe in the flickering light. Another’s dress is skin tight and made entirely of hexagons in gold, red and purple. They have a court jesters’ hat upon their head and their mask is bone white, an exuberant grin outlined in red where the mouth should be. There are all manner of animals; swans, peacocks, rabbits, crows, dormice, stags, minks. Similarly to Stiles, real animal pelts have been woven into the costumes, although some seem to have committed to tails. 

As they move through the crowd, Stiles catches whispered words concerning him. All very hushed as to not draw attention to themselves, Stiles guesses that most are unkind. He is on display here, the suckling pig with the apple in its mouth for all to feast on. A woman with flowing hair made of moss drags her luminous pink eyes across Stiles’ form before flashing her emerald teeth at him. She laughs when Stiles’ bares his own in return, impressed with his correct response. 

“Shall we dance darling,” Peter murmurs in Stiles’ ear. It’s expected. A custom Stiles can’t ignore. He tries to remember Lydia’s lessons, the muscle memory of stepping in time. 

“ _ Of course _ ,” Stiles replies, grateful to his tongue for not stumbling over the syllables. His use of the native language ripples through their audience, a shockwave of surprise and intrigue. 

Dancing with Peter is an exquisite form of torture. Stiles is sheltered in the cradle of Peter’s arms, yet Peter is exhibiting him to all those watching. Stiles is both ragdoll and work of art; gently guided into position, this scene is for the room to consume but never touch. Stiles closes his eyes, letting the whole room fade away. He imagines that this is nothing more than practise, nothing more than sensation. 

Peter pulls Stiles in close, his breath tickles the hairs on Stiles’ face and smells of cherry wine. Hands press to Stiles’ hips, a secure line as Stiles is lifted into the air. Stiles cannot help but open his eyes, the view is decadent from here and Stiles almost believes he would fly away if not for Peter’s grip. There is a sound of a champagne cork exploding, a chorus of laughter and joy. The song ends. Stiles’ feet touch the ground.

There is love here, but it is still growing. 

A silver chalice full of honeyed wine is pressed into Stiles hand. He takes a large gulp, savouring the taste and how it soothes his parched throat. 

“You were beautiful,” Peter says, voice low and enamoured, “so perfect in my arms.” 

Stiles, overcome with an emotion he cannot place, sways forward. He presses his honey painted lips to Peter’s, a kiss full of longing and tenderness and fear. Peter reciprocates, a hand tightening in Stiles’ hair. When they part, Stiles keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds, savouring the remembered feeling of Peter’s lips. 

The singer croons over the crowd, ‘ _ I’m not fighting for your freedom, I am fighting to be wild.’ _

Stiles wants to spill his guts. Confess the real game being played here, ask for forgiveness and the promise that Peter will spare those Stiles’ holds dear. But he doesn’t know Peter well enough to ask that and he’s foolish to think that any of Peter’s affection is not some form of manipulation. This is a show, this is for the court to see that the alliance is holding, that humans can be reasonable. 

Peter still has a hand in Stiles’ hair. This keeps Stiles from bolting, which given how many people are watching would probably be a bad idea, but that doesn’t mean that Stiles isn’t barely resisting the urge. Peter brings his left index thumb up to trace Stiles’ bottom lip. 

“If you’re quite finished, you have certain matters that require your attention.”

Stiles takes a step back, chugging the rest of his wine. Lydia rolls her eyes. Her mask is very simple, a tasteful gold and white eye mask with a small plume of white feathers at the bridge of the nose. Her sleeveless dress clings to her body, it looks like liquid gold has simply been poured over her. When she turns to receive a goblet of wine, she reveals that the dress is backless. Notably, at least to Stiles, she’s wearing high heeled gold sandals, her toenails are painted a deep rich red. 

“You have feet,” Stiles says.

“Of course I have feet Stiles, don’t be ridiculous. Peter, there are some members of the court who would like a word, I suggest you attend to them.” Her lips are the colour of blackberries, making her teeth seem even whiter.

Peter takes Stiles hand, bringing it up to tenderly kiss the knuckles. 

“I’ll see you later.”

Stiles is glad the mask conceals his blush. Peter disappears into the crowd, leaving only his phantom touch on Stiles’ skin behind. Lydia plucks Stiles empty cup from his loose grasp, placing it on a nearby tray and looping her arm through Stiles’. He lets her tug him in the opposite direction, knuckles still tingling. 

“You have your own matters to attend to,” Lydia states. The crowd moves out of their way, most inclining their heads respectfully though there are some who only make short sharp nods to indicate their displeasure. Stiles holds his head high, letting it all wash over him. 

Lydia leads Stiles over to an alcove filled with large, plush cushions, upon which several people are lounging. A blonde woman finishes telling a joke and they all light up with laughter, managing to avoid spilling their drinks. When they realise that Lydia and Stiles are watching them, the group bow their heads, shifting to make space on the nearest ottoman. Lydia takes a seat, gesturing to a nearby servant who places a champagne flute in her hand. Stiles kneels on one of the oversized, ruby red cushions, declining another goblet of wine, instead quietly asking for water. 

Lydia rattles off Stiles’ official title before introducing those seated around them. There are the Yukimura’s, Noshiko and Kira, kitsune’s from lands east of the forest. Noshiko has all nine of her tails; they flicker in and out of focus depending on how hard Stiles concentrates. Kira, her daughter, only has three. Kira smiles at Stiles, conveying a genuine pleasure at being introduced that Stiles wonders for a moment if she’s faking it. Noshiko greets Stiles pleasantly before leaving, as she has spotted a few friends she wishes to catch before they are lost in the crowd once more. 

To their left are Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd ‘Just Boyd’ the Third. These three are lycans, their eyes flash liquid gold except Boyd’s which are cherry red. Their fangs, long and sharp, glistening in the candle light. Both Isaac and Erica have golden curls that frame their faces, one might mistake them for cherubs and they’ve certainly leaned into the assumption, dressed as they are in matching angel costumes. 

The last is a fae girl, elegant amber horns rising from her dark hair. Her hands are black, tipped with claws that have been painted silver. She is dressed as a pirate, her white frilled shirt open and unbuttoned to below her breasts. Sprawled over two cushions, she has her legs spread, with one foot resting on the ground and the other pressing against Lydia’s seat. She is introduced as Cora, Peter’s niece, and whilst she tips her head to Stiles, it is clear that she is far more interested in Lydia. 

  
“ _ Lydia, care to dance? _ ” Cora offers, pushing herself upright. She speaks fae with the same accent as Peter, though her voice is much harder. Lydia looks to Stiles, evidently considering whether it is appropriate to leave him alone and quickly decides that if Stiles is going to swim it is better to throw him into the water. 

Cora offers Lydia her arm, a gesture she clearly learnt from her uncle. 

The waiter brings Stiles a glass of water as well as a tray of fresh fruit. Stiles picks up an apple, shiny and red. He bites into it, lifting his mask in order to eat more easily. Erica gives him a sly grin, reaching forward to snag her own apple. She tosses it in the air a few times before aggressively taking a large bite. 

“ _ So _ ,” Erica says, mouth half full of apple, “ _ what’s it like being human in this room? _ ” 

Erica’s fae is similar to Stiles in that it isn’t her first language, so it takes Stiles a few seconds to work out the gist of her question. 

“ _ Like my body is lacking in suitable decoration _ .” 

Erica laughs, a startled yet amused sound. Boyd raises an eyebrow, while Isaac leans forward, tilting his head to one side. 

“ _ Explain? _ ” Isaac demands. 

“ _ My body _ ,” Stiles replies, pointing to himself and then to his teeth, “ _ is simple. No fangs, no horns, no ability to shift shape, I feel underdressed.”  _

“ _ Underdressed? In those clothes? _ ” Isaac says, plucking grapes from the fruit tray. Erica jabs Isaac in the ribs with her elbow. 

“ _ I think you look nice Stiles _ ,” Kira says. 

“ _ I’m wearing orange, it’s not really a flattering colour _ ,” Stiles concedes, “ _ although the material is soft, so at least I’m comfortable _ .” 

“ _ I suppose they all wear rags where you’re from _ ,” Isaac says, lounging back on his cushion. He regards Stiles with an arched eyebrow, spoiling for a fight, eager to trip up the human. Erica growls, a warning sound. Isaac flashes his fangs in response. 

“ _ If you want to bait me, I suggest you aim for more enticing traps _ ,” Stiles replies. He takes another bite of his apple, holding Isaac’s gaze without blinking. Isaac opens his mouth to retort but Boyd reaches around Erica’s back to place a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. Boyd shakes his head. Isaac slumps back into his cushion, sullen and silent. 

Stiles shifts in his seat so that he’s facing Kira, not blocking the Lycans but making it clear he is done with any conversation about where he’s from. 

“ _ Kira, tell me about your home _ ,” Stiles says, “ _ forgive my ignorance, but I do not know much about it _ .” 

Stiles spends the next few hours chatting with Kira and Erica, learning about their homes, their cultures and their opinions on court gossip. It is strange for Stiles to be negotiating a space in which he is friendly but not able to be a friend. There is a barrier, Stiles newfound status keeps them separate and though Isaac is petulant, there is an undercurrent of respect and duty. Stiles tries to keep to his side of the line, not fully himself and yet not fully the ideal of someone in his position either. The royal diplomat fostering neighbouring relationships while still finding time to make jokes. 

Lydia and Cora return sometime later; Cora’s face glows with flushed pleasure. Lydia is as composed as ever, though Stiles notes the hint of her lipstick at the corners of Cora’s mouth. 

Lydia whisks Stiles away, introducing him to various members of the court. There is only time for brief conversation before Stiles is introduced to the next member, each interaction an intricate ritual of formal fae speak and the correct hand gestures. Stiles’ mouth is dry by the end of it, he gulps honeyed wine with a feverish intensity. An arm wraps itself around Stiles’ waist, pulling him flush against someone’s front.

“Having fun?” Peter murmurs in Stiles’ ear. 

“Do you mean am I enjoying the party, or am I enjoying Lydia’s extended test of my ability to foster diplomatic relationships?” 

Peter chuckles. “Well, allow me to steal you away.” 

They escape to the greenhouse, the night air pleasant on their heated skin. Stiles pulls off his shoes, rolling his trousers up before sitting beside the waterfall pool. He sticks his feet into the soft, cool water. Peter drops his wolf mask to the ground, joining Stiles at the water’s edge. They sit together in comfortable silence, their fingers just about touching. Peter hooks his pinky with Stiles, this tiny point of contact lighting up all the nerves in Stiles’ hand. Stiles lets his head drop to rest on Peter’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, listening to the distant thumping of the music.

  
  


\---

Stiles watches Scott with concerned eyes as Scott says his first words to Allison. Scott is blushing, fumbling over his words as he gives Allison a bouquet of wildflowers. Allison smiles, her eyes crinkling with kindness and Stiles lets himself breathe. They’re twelve, this is the blossom of first love, opening up to greet the sunlight for the first time. 

Stiles wishes it wasn’t Allison, not because of jealousy but because there is no way that Allison’s father or grandfather will let Scott pursue this. Scott is an orphan, prone to illness and Gerard already treats him like the runt of the litter. Stiles touches the most recent welt from Gerard’s belt. The sting only fills him with more determination to one day leave this place. 

Allison’s name is called by her imposing father so she leaves, skipping away with a few of the flowers in her plaits. Scott bounds back over, joy spilling out of him. Stiles smiles, aims for happy, comes across as pained. Scott flops down next to Stiles, stretching his limbs out like a starfish. 

“Allison is so pretty, don’t you think?”

“I guess if you like that sort of thing.”   
  


“You don’t think she’s pretty?”

Stiles shrugs, plucking blades of grass. “I mean, do you want me to?”

Scott ponders this for a moment. “I guess not.”

Stiles lies back, looking up at the cloud filled sky. He points to a particularly fluffy one. “It looks like a sheep.”

Scott shifts his head to the left. “Oh yeah, it does.”

They make shapes out of the clouds, craft stories of escaping and adventures and happy endings. They don’t think about how soon they will have to go back inside, don’t think about the uncomfortable beds, the bare minimum of food. 

“So if you don’t think Allison is pretty, who do you like?” Scott asks. Stiles pulls a nearby daisy out of the ground, methodically removing the petals. 

“I don’t know. No one here. I think that maybe they’re out there.” Stiles gestures to world around them. “You know, beyond the city walls.”

“I hope they’re nice,” Scott says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, letting the petals fly away in the breeze. “So do I.”

\---

Summer brings blistering heat. Peter often finds Stiles sprawled out under a tree in one of the courtyards, a book in his lap and eyes half closed as he attempts to stop himself from dozing. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable inside?”

“It’s hot,” Stiles whines. “Everywhere is hot. I’m melting.” 

“You’re not melting.”   
  


“I am. You’re so indifferent to my suffering.”

Stiles sprawls out even more, his head at Peter’s feet so he can look up and pout. Peter is smiling indulgently, the late evening sun behind his head. Stiles has never thought much about beauty in his life, considering it something abstract that other people concern themselves with. His life was not beautiful, beauty did not matter, it wasn’t something that Stiles ever aspired to. To him, it did not matter if his life after he escaped was beautiful, so long as it was safe and fulfilling. But here, in the moment, the sight of Peter illuminated by the sun, that to Stiles is beautiful. To be able to see this, to experience Peter’s smile at this exact second, is beautiful. 

“Come on, you’ll burn if you stay out here too long.”

Stiles thinks burning might be worth it, if he gets to stay in this moment for a bit longer. 

\---

Despite Stiles’ best efforts, his summer solstice outfit contains both a corset and an obscene amount of sheer fabric. The ruby choker also makes a reappearance. Peter runs his fingers along the red ribbons of the corset, tugging playfully. Stiles slaps his hand away. 

“Stop that, we’re in public.”

Peter ignores him, nuzzling at the soft skin behind Stiles ear before placing a flower crown upon Stiles head. Peter’s own crown is made entirely of poisonous flowers; Stiles worries that might be dangerous but he supposes Peter would only agree to wearing flowers if they were deadly. 

They’re in a forest clearing, paper lanterns strung between the trees. The music is lively, the food plentiful and the company not half bad. Stiles has Lydia to his left; the corners of her mouth slightly upturned as Cora flirts shamelessly with her. Kira is dancing with Erica, teaching Erica some strange dance move that involves a lot of stomping and waving your arms around. Isaac, broody as ever, tosses red currants into Boyd’s open mouth, missing more often than not. 

Peter arranges Stiles in his lap, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ jaw. It’s later in the day, the heat having subsided so Stiles allows this closeness. Earlier he would have pushed Peter away, whining about being sweaty. Stiles has blurry memories of the Summers of his youth. An indistinct sense of happiness, the sun on his skin, pushing Scott into a nearby creek. Once he was good to work, it was a series of odd jobs and wistfully staring out of windows. 

Stiles watches the people around him. The joy is palpable, he can practically taste its honey sweetness on his tongue. This is what Gerard wants to destroy, to burn it to the ground in his deluded war of conquest. Stiles knows there is bloodshed on both sides; he’s not stupid. He has seen what the forest can do to people, how it can mangled and maim them. He’s seen what happens to the Nightwatch on long winter nights, when the sun won’t come up for hours and the moon is no comfort. But it’s not like the village has ever treated him with any kindness. 

Stiles has notebooks full of information. Languages, court rules, maps and diagrams and detailed drawings. In a few months time he will have to make a choice. He can either hand it over or he can try to manipulate the village into becoming part of the fae kingdom, perhaps even keep this strange alliance in place. Stiles doesn’t know how to achieve that, hasn’t decided what to do at all. All he does know is that he’s content, happy even. Desperate to keep this, whatever this is and for once not have to compromise. Is it so bad to be wanted?

Peter drags his mouth along Stiles neck, nipping at the skin. The sweet sting brings Stiles out of his head, his skin humming as Peter’s hands run over it. While they have been indulging in a more intense intimacy lately, they haven’t had sex yet. Stiles, struck with an unusual boldness, turns his head to whisper in Peter’s ear.

“Take me home, take me to bed.” 

Peter pauses, leaning back to study Stiles’ face. “Are you sure?”

“Please.”

Whatever Peter is searching for in Stiles’ face, he doesn’t seem to find. He presses his forehead against Stiles’. “Alright Sweetheart.” 

\---

The corset stays because of course the corset stays. Stiles is laid out on the bed, Peter hovering over him with an expression that conveys that Peter isn’t sure where to start. He settles for trailing his claws over Stiles’ skin in delicate, barely there touches. He traces the lines of the corset, tugging on the ribbons to make Stiles gasp. 

“Sit up,” Peter says, leaning back. Stiles does so, letting Peter turn him around. Peter unties the ribbons, carefully rethreading them through the eyelets. This is no longer about an aesthetic choice. The corset had been fitted but not tight, in case Stiles wanted to run around in it. “I’m going to lace this properly, if at any point it feels like too much and you can’t breathe, we stop.”

Stiles nods, arousal simmering in his gut at the thought of how Peter’s going to look at him in this. 

“Breathe in deep for me darling. Now hold it. That’s good.”

Peter pulls on the ribbons, making encouraging noises as the corset tightens around Stiles. It feels like being held. Like being wanted. Peter kisses the nape of Stiles neck. 

“The red looks so beautiful on you.”

Stiles turns, capturing Peter’s mouth in a sloppy kiss. Peter refines it, guiding Stiles enthusiasm into something hungry and wonderful. Stiles’ hands slide up Peter’s sides, resting at Peter’s broad shoulders. He just wants to touch, is consumed by a desire to be touched. Peter takes that desire readily and like a mirror reflects it back to him. 

Peter retrieves some oil from a nearby draw. Stiles watches, mouth parted, as Peter’s claws retract. Slicking up his fingers, Peter guides Stiles into a suitable position with his other hand. Stiles has never been watched this way, like he’s something desirable, something sacred. 

“I’m going to open you up,” Peter says, voice practically a growl. “Make a space for myself inside you. I’m going to tear you apart and put you back together, make you scream.”

“Do it,” Stiles demands, grabbing Peter’s hand and pulling it towards his hole. Peter grins, pressing one of his fingers inside. Stiles takes a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as Peter starts to stretch him. Peter sucks bruises into Stiles’ neck, a galaxy of clear intent, as a method of distraction. 

Another finger and Stiles back arches, as much as it can within the silken confines of the corset. Peter presses against a bundle of nerves, his pupils expanding as he catalogues Stiles reactions. Stiles cock is dripping; he whines with need as Peter repeatedly presses against his prostate. 

“Please, please.” Stiles is breathless with want. His hands grasp at Peter’s shoulders, nails digging in. 

“Soon darling, don’t want to break you.”

Stiles wants to be broken. Wants to be torn apart and put back together by Peter’s hands. He grabs blindly for Peter’s horns, using them to steer Peter’s head closer for a kiss. Peter draws in a sharp breath.

“Sensitive?” Stiles asks, running his thumb along the soft velvet sheen of the horns. 

“A little,” Peter admits. He presses a kiss to Stiles slack mouth. “It feels good though, your hands on me.”

Peter fingers Stiles for a little while longer before removing his fingers completely. Stiles makes a needy sound at the loss. Peter nuzzles at the underside of Stiles’ chin. 

“It’s alright darling, be patient a little longer.”

They change positions, Peter arranging himself so that he’s underneath. Stiles is held above Peter’s cock, together they guide it into him, slow and steady. Stiles exhales heavily at the feeling of being so full. Peter’s hands are at his waist, petting at the skin. It’s like Peter’s everywhere, inside and out. Stiles reaches for Peter’s horns, holding them tightly and running his fingers over the sensitive parts. Peter growls. 

Stiles rolls his hips, savouring the sensations. Peter lets him set the pace, watching Stiles with practically black eyes. Peter watches and Stiles enjoys being watched; enjoys the tightness of the corset, the tactility of Peter’s horns beneath his fingertips. Stiles feels powerful here, lazily riding Peter and revelling in how Peter worships his body. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Peter says, one hand cupping Stiles face, “my darling little human. Look how well you take me, how perfectly your skin bruises. Everyone will know what we did here, will know that you’re mine.” 

Peter takes Stiles in hand. The pace increases, both of them working in tandem, chasing their orgasms. It hits Stiles like a wave cresting, the rush is amazing. Stiles moans Peter’s name, pleasure unspooling inside him. Peter bites into the meat of Stiles’ shoulder, rutting up a few more times before finishing. 

They slump over in the bed, sweaty and sated. Peter places soft kisses to Stiles throat as he pulls out. Stiles whines weakly at the loss. Peter grins, a smug, joyful grin as he kisses Stiles’ forehead before heading off to the bathroom to retrieve a washcloth. Peter cleans them both up, handling Stiles’ body with the utmost care. The corset is unlaced and removed. Stiles notes tiny splashes of come at the base and blushes at the thought of those who will have to clean it. 

Stiles curls up at Peter’s side once he’s climbed back into bed. He falls asleep, lulled by Peter playing with his hair. 

\---

Stiles knows that he is the knife poised over Peter’s back. This peace between their communities is held together with string thin as spider silk. If any side makes a move, if there is any sign of aggression or violence then it all crumbles. 

Gerard is waiting for Stiles to betray everything he’s building here. Come spring, Gerard will place the knife in Stiles’ hand. 

It’s up to Stiles who he decides to plunge it into.

\---

Autumn passes quickly, a season of harvests and winter preparation. Peter also takes this time to introduce Stiles to the court council. It is clear that not everyone around the table trusts Stiles, or approves of Peter’s decisions but they hold their tongues. Stiles observes but does not contribute, aware that it would not be welcome and also because he is not well versed in council etiquette. He uses this opportunity to learn each of the council members personalities, their ways of debating, the opinions they put forward and the one’s they truly have. 

Winter arrives almost overnight, the leaves bare, the ground frost kissed. Stiles’ wardrobe shifts from sheer, light fabrics to heavier furs and soft wools. He’s always pleasantly warm and comfortable, a stark contrast to the bitter winters he has previously weathered. 

Currently he is stretched out on the rug, shirt rucked up and trousers unbuttoned as Peter laps precum from the head of Stiles’ cock. A fire crackles in the grate, the warmth radiating over their bodies. One of Peter’s hands pins Stiles’ in place, the other is on his own dick, slowly thrusting in time with bob of his head. Stiles moans, back arching as Peter takes him to the root. 

He can’t help but thrust into the inviting heat of Peter’s mouth. Peter makes encouraging noises, relaxing his jaw to allow Stiles to use him. He wants Stiles to be greedy, to take and take like this is something he is owed. Stiles threads his fingers through Peter’s disheveled hair, gripping on tight to the sweat-silk strands. 

Stiles finishes first, groaning low and loud. He slumps back against the rug, letting out a soft whine when Peter pulls off. Peter rises onto his knees, speeding up the movement of his fist, his eyes taking in the sight of a thoroughly debauched Stiles. Stiles ends up with come on his stomach and most of his shirt, Peter settling beside him. Stiles coaxes Peter into a gentle kiss, syrup slow and sticky. 

“This shirt is ruined,” Stiles mumbles, brain still caught up in the haze of an orgasm. 

“I’ll get you another one,” Peter replies, propping himself up on one elbow so he can get a better look at Stiles. Stiles smiles at him, reaching out to brush the hair out of Peter’s face. 

“Your hair is getting long.” Peter’s hair now curls at the top of his neck, little cowlicks that Stiles has taken to playing with or grasping during sex. 

“So is yours.” Peter tugs on a few strands. 

“I used to shave it off in Spring, maybe I should start doing that again.”

Peter makes a soft humming sound. “Perhaps, although I do like being able to pull you around.” Peter grips a handful of Stiles’ hair, using it to direct Stiles into slanting their mouths together. Stiles tugs on Peter’s bottom lip. 

“We have to go to dinner with Cora and Lydia,” Stiles says when they break apart, “no matter how efficient you are, we do not have time for another round. And I have to change out of this shirt.” 

They end up late to dinner. What can Stiles say, Peter’s just that persuasive. 

\---

Stiles is a vision in dark blue for the Winter Solstice. A long, midnight blue coat with a white fur trim and snowflake details stitched with silver thread, over a white shirt and tight navy corset, tied with silver ribbon. Peter, also in dark blue, keeps slipping his hand under Stiles coat to tug on the silver ribbons. Stiles deliberately leans back in his chair, trapping Peter’s hand against the wooden back. 

The ballroom is decorated with bare trees painted white, lanterns hanging from their branches. Garlands of mistletoe have been hung from the ceiling. The air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and hot apple cider; the music ethereal as it echoes around the room. Stiles pops a red currant into his mouth, making a show of how relaxed he is while Peter tries to wiggle his hand out. 

“Stiles, darling.”

“Hmm.”

“My hand, please.”

“I don’t think you’re responsible enough to have it back.” 

Peter leans in so that he’s close to Stiles’ ear. “Darling, don’t make me punish you later.”

Given that Peter’s idea of punishment usually involves Stiles experiencing an orgasm, he’s not too worried. Stiles goes to make a teasing reply when he notes that Deucalion has approached their table. 

Deucalion and his pack are guests from further in the forest than Stiles cares to think about. They all have a feral, unhinged energy about them, although Deucalion is better at hiding it. He speaks fae with a particular accent, the words rolling off his tongue seemed bathed in violence. He’s supposedly blind, but Stiles feels watched every time they interact, observed like he’s a specimen in a jar. 

Deucalion bows low, so low that it looks like he’s mocking them. Stiles leans forward, letting Peter’s hand free. 

“ _ Happiest of Winter Solstices my Lords.”  _

_ “The same to you,” _ Stiles says, reaching for his apple cider, which he raises in a toast before taking a sip. Deucalion smiles, a jagged, brutal thing. 

“ _ I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, Lord Peter _ .” 

“ _ It’s the Winter Solstice, a time for merriment Deucalion, not politics _ ,” Peter replies, “let us not discuss business tonight.”

“ _ It cannot wait, I’m afraid. I am speaking on behalf of a few members of your court, who have expressed their dissatisfaction with the current situation _ .” Deucalion says dissatisfaction in the most salacious way, it makes Stiles’ skin crawl. 

“ _ Current situation? _ ”

“ _ This would be better discussed elsewhere my Lord, away from prying ears _ .” Deucalion is definitely looking at Stiles when he says this, no matter that he’s wearing opaque glasses, Stiles knows he’s being watched.

“ _ Perhaps it would be better for you to speak more plainly Deucalion _ ,” Stiles says, putting on a disaffected air as he leans back in his chair, “ _ one might think you’re talking about me. _ ”

Deucalion laughs nervously. “ _ My Lord, I meant no offense, I merely wish to relay the dissatisfaction of the court. Those who believe that Stiles’ loyalties might be somewhat divided. Those who fear an attack and those who believe that making peace with humanity is not enough _ .” 

Peter is furious. He stands, towering over Deucalion, his jaw set hard. Stiles bursts out laughing, startling them both. He smacks his hand against the table a few times, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. 

“ _ Oh Deucalion _ ,” Stiles says, “ _ I do so love when you try to play politics. You think you’re good at it, think you’re being sly and cunning. But it’s so easy to read you.” _

_ “My Lord, I am merely a messenger...” _

_ “Here’s the thing,”  _ Stiles interrupts, waving Deucalion into silence, “ _ if you want to win whatever game you think you’re playing, you need to learn how to not show your entire hand all the time. Your attempts at manipulation are amusing at best, pitiful at worst. And now, well, you’ve insulted your hosts, at the Winter Solstice, of all times. I believe that’s cause for your removal. Although, I might be wrong, I am just a human after all.” _

Deucalion splutters, unable to come up with a coherent response before guards come to escort him from the ballroom. He yells something derogatory over his shoulder in Lycan, something that causes Peter to make a large dent in the table with his fist. Stiles merely sips his apple cider, bored by Deucalion’s posturing. 

Deucalion’s accusations, whilst they have some merit, are not a cause for concern. It would be simplistic to assume that the court would welcome Stiles with open arms, that they wouldn’t assume some sort of nefarious plot bubbling below the surface. Stiles is surprised it took them this long to call him out. 

Peter reassures the shocked crowd, encouraging them to feast to their heart’s content and dance till their feet tire, before sitting back down and turning to Stiles. “No one is allowed to speak to you that way, I will slaughter them myself.”

“Charming as that is, it’s probably better not to murder members of your council.” Peter makes a sound like he disagrees. Stiles cups Peter’s face, gently guiding him into a sweet kiss. “I’m fine, honestly I was expecting something like this. It doesn’t change anything, we’re in this together, remember.” 

Peter smiles. “Of course dearheart. Come, let us dance. I want members of the council to be utterly sick at the sight of our happiness.” 

Stiles laughs, taking Peter’s hand and allowing himself to be whisked out onto the dancefloor.

\---

The invitation to Scott’s wedding arrives the next day. The paper is crisp, the lettering silver and gold. Stiles traces the date with his finger, dread sinking in his stomach like a weighted body in a lake. 

He brushes off Peter’s concern, distracting him with promises of corsetry and long evenings spent entirely in bed. He doesn’t think about how he’s trying to have as much of Peter as he possibly can, before it’s all snatched away. 

\---

Spring blossoms and Stiles’ dread with it. He spends the night before the wedding going over his notes, planning and replanning. He paces around the bedroom, muttering under his breath. He runs a hand through his hair, dragging a blueprint across the table. He grabs a quill, scribbling some notes along the side. He’s so involved in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice Peter enter the room.    
  


“You look… busy.” 

Stiles’ head snaps up. Peter has a charcoal grey suit draped over one arm, presumably the one Stiles will be wearing tomorrow. Stiles drops the quill, straightening up. 

“Is this…” Peter gestures to Stiles’ various blueprints and schemes, “anxiety related?”

“This is a manifestation of my anxiety, yes,” Stiles says. He gathers everything together, tapping the papers on the desk to straighten them up. “I just need tomorrow to go well. I just need…” Stiles sighs. “I just want Scott to have a good wedding. Is that my suit?”

Peter hands over the suit. The material is soft, stitched with intricate designs. It’s simpler than some of the outfits Stiles has worn though no less elegant. Stiles runs his fingers over the fabric. 

“No corset?”

“I didn’t think your human friends would appreciate it.”

“Probably not. Although you didn’t seem to mind when you dressed me for our wedding.”

Peter dips his head, smirking. 

“Ok, focus and stop picturing me in my wedding corset.” 

Peter reaches out, pulling Stiles close to him. Stiles lets himself sink into the embrace, some of the tension melting out of him. Peter kisses Stiles’ forehead. 

“Lets go to bed, big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, wiggling out of the hug, “in a minute, I just want to finish up here and then I’ll come.”

Peter nods, taking Stiles’ suit back.

“You know, if you wanted to do the wedding over, have an actual proper wedding, I wouldn’t be opposed to that.” 

Stiles looks at his feet, not sure he can stand to look at the sincere look on Peter’s face. “Yeah, maybe... I’ll definitely think about it.”

“Alright darling. Don’t stay up too late, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Peter leaves, hanging the suit from the door handle on his way out. Stiles stares at the closed door for a while before looking down at the papers in his hands. He chucks them into the air, revelling in the sound of paper hitting the floor, in the randomness of the scatter. In a moment, he’ll gather them back up, light a fire and watch everything burn. For now, Stiles watches the setting sun through the window, surrounded by the paper debris of the lives he’s trying to save.

\---

Dawn breaks, as it has always done, golden and fresh. Stiles looks at his reflection in the mirror, poking at the dark circles beneath his eyes. He thinks on the last few months, his body hunching over as the longing bursts inside him. He balls his hands into fists, wanting more than anything to slam them into the mirror, to feel the salt-sting of skinned knuckles. Instead he lets out a shuddering breath, relaxing his fingers. He buttons up his shirt. Slips into his suit jacket. Checks his face once more time in the mirror. 

Stiles, when it comes down to it, is nothing if not practical. He has a mission. He will complete it. There are no alternatives. 

\---

Stiles and Peter are directed to sit in a cramped corner of the chapel; Stiles has to leave sideways to see around a pillar and even then he can barely see Scott. Scott is wearing a plain black suit, presumably bought with Argent money. His pocket square and tie are rose red, Stiles thinks that the tie pin has the Argent crest on it. He manages to catch Scott’s eye, giving him a reassuring thumbs up. Scott waves excitedly. He stops when he sees Peter, unease shadowing his face. 

Stiles looks to Peter, then back at Scott. He makes a quick, complex gesture, hands remembering the shapes that mean it’s ok, I’m fine. Scott doesn’t look convinced but the organ begins to play and his attention is lost to Allison. 

She’s escorted up the aisle by her father. Christopher Argent is an interesting looking man, handsome but severe. Stiles has distinct memories of cowering under his gaze, usually because Allison, Scott and Stiles were doing something they definitely shouldn’t have been. Stiles cranes his head, trying to gage where Gerard is but he can’t seem to spot him. Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist, tilting his head to whisper in Stiles’ ear.

“Relax, it will be fine.”

Stiles eases up, letting himself take comfort while he still can. 

The reception takes place in the Town hall. The wedding decor is somewhat lacking compared to what Stiles has seen these past seasons. Simple flower arrangements, white paper streamers and gingham tablecloths that have seen better days. Still, the music is good and there’s plenty of food. Stiles pops a canape into his mouth, enjoying the crunch of pastry and tang of meat. He knows that people around them are watching him and Peter, curious eyes sliding sideways when Stiles stares back. 

Stiles scans the room, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. Peter tries one of the canapes. He makes a face before discreetly spitting it into a napkin. 

“I’m going to get a drink, do you want anything?” Peter asks. He runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, trying to remove the taste.

“Wine, ideally.” 

Peter nods. He kisses Stiles on the cheek before heading over to the table laden with drinks. Stiles watches Peter weave through the crowd, noting that people are nervous but not actively hostile. Stiles supposes that no one wants to ruin the wedding atmosphere. Then he feels it. The slick, cold sensation of being watched. A fly trapped in a spiders web. Stiles turns on his heel. 

Gerard is waiting. Lurking in the shadows, eyes pulsing like hot coals. He beckons to Stiles with a skeletal finger. 

Stiles crams another canape in his mouth. The taste is foully bitter the second time around.

\---

Gerard hides them away in an office. He looks terrible. He’s thinner than Stiles remembers, his suit ill-fitting and threadbare. There’s a manic, desperate energy about him; he seems like a dying predator, clinging to life in order to bite down on the hand reaching to save it. He grabs Stiles by the lapels, grip surprisingly strong, breath sour with alcohol. 

“So, Stiles, did you gain anything of value or were you too busy fucking that abomination?”

Stiles removes Gerard’s hands, brushing down the fabric. “Firstly, don’t fucking touch me. Secondly, don’t fucking touch me. Thirdly, do you practise any kind of hygiene, like at all?”

Gerard sneers. “Don’t waste my time. Either give me their weaknesses or I’ll have Scott shot where he stands.”

“And ruin a perfectly good party? Seems a bit extreme, they haven’t even cut the cake yet.”

Gerard’s arm rears back. Stiles catches Gerard’s wrist mid swing, twisting it downwards. He’s tempted to snap it, thinks it would be easy, like breaking a daisy stem.

“We’re not doing this anymore. I’m not a child, you can’t abuse me or manipulate me. This alliance works. No one is dead, no one is bleeding out in the forest. There is no more destruction, no more praying to make it through the night. Now, you could follow through with your threat, kill Scott but you won’t. Because there’s no one in this room but us. You’ve clearly lost whatever influence you used to have. No one is going to follow you into a bloodbath.”

Stiles lets go of Gerard’s wrist. Gerard laughs, a dark, wheezing rattle. “You’re a kept pet Stiles. Something to fuck when he’s bored. Soon the shine is going to wear off and then where will you be. This is our chance to take what is rightfully ours.” 

“We’re done here.” 

Stiles turns, heading for the door. He yelps as he’s struck from behind. He drops to the ground, knees going out from under him. He touches the back of his head, wincing when it comes away wet. He hears the swoosh of fabric through air, the sound of something being raised. He scrambles out of the way as Gerard brings down a statue of a deer he’s grabbed from a nearby shelf. Splintered wood flies out of the dent where Stiles used to be. 

“If you won’t help me then there’s no more use for you,” Gerard roars. He wrenches the bronze deer out of the floor, advancing on Stiles with spittle dripping from his chin. Stiles’ back hits the wall. Nowhere left to hide. 

The door slams open, hitting the wall so hard that the knob embeds into the wall. Peter looms in the doorway, fury radiating off him. For once, Stiles is terrified, not that Peter would hurt him but of what Peter might do. Of the carnage he might witness. If Peter lays a hand on Gerard, the alliance falls apart. 

But then Peter stands aside. Christopher Argent is behind him. He takes in the scene with world-weariness, the exhaustion of someone constantly cleaning up after Gerard’s messes. 

“Father, stop. The alliance holds. We are no longer an invading force. We can live in peace.”

“I will not bow to these creatures,” Gerard snarls. He’s still holding the statue above his head, teetering on unsteady feet. 

“Lay another hand on my husband and I will slit you, throat to stomach,” Peter growls. Christopher puts a hand on Peter’s arm. It’s more a courtesy than actually holding Peter back. 

“See,” Gerard screeches, “see how he threatens me. Vile thing!”

Stiles has had enough. He sweeps his leg round, taking Gerard’s legs out from under him. Gerard hits the ground hard, the weight of the statue working against him. He crumples to the ground, a moth with a broken wing struggling towards the light. Stiles takes Gerard’s head in his hands. 

“Give me a good reason not to snap his neck,” Stiles says. He stares directly at Christopher. Unflinching. Untamed. He will not be beholden to this bloated spider. This waste of good air. Christopher rubs his chin. He has the eyes of a man seeing a rabbit in a trap and wondering whether it is better to let the rabbit go or put it out of his misery.

Stiles decides before Christopher can speak. The crack is deafeningly loud. 

\---

Stiles discovered the balcony in Winter. He had seen it from the greenhouse but could never work out exactly where it was, couldn’t work out the exact staircases to take to get close. He’s been waiting for it to be warm enough to use, so he can gaze upon the greenhouse from on high. This new perspective only serves to highlight the beauty of that absurd green space. Stiles leans on the railing, the polished stone cool against his forearms, the early morning light warm on his face. 

Peter moves into Stiles’ peripheral view. He’s carrying a cup of mint tea, the smell wraps itself around them both, fresh and fragrant. Somewhere birds twitter. A rabbit thumps its foot against the ground. A bee pollinates a flower. 

“You never told me why you agreed to all this,” Stiles says, pointing at himself. “I mean, now you know why I did. Subterfuge. Well, technically I was worried Scott was going to be murdered, I’ve looked after him my whole life, Gerard knew exactly what button to push. I don’t think he expected me to fall in love, which really was an oversight on his part.” 

They stand in silence for a while. Peter finishes his tea, setting down his cup with a gentle clink. 

“Initially,” Peter says, voice low and gentle, “it was to end the war. Contrary to what Gerard seems to believe, we don’t enjoy slaughtering children. All this bloodshed isn’t good for the forest. I’m not stupid Stiles, I knew the humans intentions weren’t pure. But I took a chance, hoping that if I could show you kindness, compassion, then it would be enough to put this to an end. For us to live in harmony.”

Peter coaxes Stiles into a kiss. It’s sweet but still passionate, still maddeningly perfect. 

“I don’t think I planned to fall in love either,” Peter murmurs against Stiles’ lips, “but how could I not?”

Stiles laughs. He kisses Peter enthusiastically, hands messing up Peter’s hair. “Take me to bed.”

“As my husband commands.”

Peter picks Stiles up in a bridal carry, taking him back to their shared room. There is still much they need to do today. They need to begin the process of integrating humanity with the forest, opening trade routes, starting afresh and uniting the village with the fae kingdoms. But that can wait. Right now, all Stiles cares about is Peter and their bed and the overwhelming feeling of love aching in his heart. 

\---

In the beginning there was the forest. In the end there will be the forest. Now, it is at peace. Now, it is thriving. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr - neglectedtuesday


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